The Law of Complementary Colors
by could-have-beens
Summary: "It is a phenomenon often seen. A sceptic who adheres to a believer is as simple as the law of complementary colors." Tom is determined to reclaim his past. Ginny is just as determined to change his future.
1. The Transfer Student

_1936_

Tom Riddle didn't particularly like London.

It was perpetually crowded, for one. If it wasn't fellow commuters pressing on you from all sides in the Tube, then it was frazzled businessmen bumping and brushing past you without so much as a glance. Worse still were the gawking tourists, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the sights and giggling at the accents.

It couldn't be helped, of course. A city like this, beautiful and bustling with life, was always going to have people. Tom normally didn't mind, but hours spent stuck in meetings and listening to his colleagues drone on about numbers and stocks and whatnot, can drain the patience of even the most long-suffering of men. The sight of so many people only made him — irrationally, he knew — more irritable than he already was.

The weather certainly didn't help his mood. Cecilia used to joke that the London weather was as predictably unpredictable as his temper, mild and sunny one minute and gloomy and overcast the next.

 _Used to_ being the operative words. Tom quickly shook the thought away.

Just mere hours ago, it had seemed like a perfect summer day — clear skies, shining sun, the works. So perfect, in fact, that Tom had been gracious enough to send his chauffeur home. He had thought, incorrectly, that he would be able to enjoy the sunlight after work, that he would get a chance to relax outside his parents' watchful and paranoid eyes.

What a mistake that was.

But it was _June_ , for pity's sake. There weren't supposed to be downpours like this in the middle of summer. Some drizzle, maybe, but this? This was the type of weather when drinking tea and reading by the fireplace were the only acceptable activities for the day. It wasn't for waiting under a bus stop, wearing drenched socks and trousers wet at the ankles.

The rain wasn't letting up, and it didn't look like it would anytime soon. It hammered noisily on the roof overhead, forming rapidly flowing streams once it reached the pavement. Almost everyone had been driven off the streets, though Tom could spot a few pedestrians braving the wind with their umbrellas and sodden newspapers.

He glanced at his watch again.

The bus was late. Because _of course_ it would be, on the one day Tom needed to use it.

Sighing, he sat down on the damp seat and wished, not for the first time, that he hadn't gone to the city in the first place.

Not that anything could be done about that either. Father, according to him, was getting on in the years and wasn't fit to travel from Yorkshire so often. Such deprecating comments were just blatant attempts to get Tom out of the manor, but Mother had been so pleased when he had agreed to go in his father's place that Tom had been unable to say no ever since.

As inconvenient as it was, he felt it was the least he could do. Ever since the . . . the Incident — Christ, he could hear the capital letter in his head — his parents had watched him like a hawk, fretting over every little thing he did and said. They still walked on eggshells around him, never mind that a decade had already passed, and acted like his occasional sullenness was a precursor to another _rebellious_ _phase_ , as they called it. It eased their worries whenever he played at being a responsible adult, when he talked business and wore suits and pretended he knew what he was doing with their bloody company.

A car zoomed past, leaving a cloud of dust rising in its wake. Tom covered his nose with one hand, waved the smoke away from his face with the other.

It was only then that Tom noticed he wasn't alone. On the other end of the bench sat a young boy, wearing a coat that was frayed at the hems, faded in colour and far too big for his thin frame. The boy was coughing discreetly into his hand, and it looked to Tom that he had only just ducked in, his face wet and his dark hair still dripping.

Tom knew he ought to look away and ignore the boy until his bus arrived. If the boy caught him staring, he would undoubtedly pester Tom for spare change, as the homeless and vagrants were wont to do, and it would be yet another annoyance in an already annoying day. But something gave Tom pause.

The longer he looked at him, the more Tom became aware of a sudden, nagging feeling of déjà vu. There was something about this boy, something important, and it was strange and vaguely familiar all at once. Something that sparked a memory, hazy and half-forgotten. It felt like he was looking at an unfocused photograph, its details too blurry and indistinct to place.

It was a feeling that would not leave, even as Tom looked away.

A fleeting sideways glance told Tom that the boy was studying him too, careful and wary. Lessons on class and etiquette had been too ingrained for Tom to do something as common as fidget, but he felt that if there ever was a moment to do so, it would be now, under this boy's scrutiny.

Tom wasn't sure how long he sat there before he saw the bus round the corner. It would be here soon, any moment now. He gathered his things, pulled them close, prepared to get up —

The bus pulled up, its tyres screeching to a halt. Its doors opened. The driver looked at him expectantly.

Tom didn't move.

Confused desperation surged within him and glued him to his seat. He knew, somehow, that he simply couldn't leave, not without saying something, _anything_ —

"Your bus is here, sir."

Tom turned and met a pair of dark eyes, piercing and familiar.

And suddenly, inexplicably, Tom knew.

— — —

" _It is a phenomenon often seen. A sceptic who adheres to a believer is as simple as the_ _law of complementary colours_ _.  
_ _That which we lack attracts us. No one loves the light like the blind man."_

― Victor Hugo, _Les_ _Misérables_

— — —

 _1 September 1942_

Horace Slughorn was surprisingly obtuse for a Slytherin. Tom found that conversations with him involved little more than overt flattery, nods and hmm's at the appropriate pauses, and faked wide-eyed surprise at his oft-repeated tales.

This time, though, Tom's surprise was genuine.

"A transfer student, sir?" he said.

"Indeed!" boomed Slughorn. "To be frank, my boy, I didn't think it was possible myself. Why, in all my years in this school, I certainly have never heard of transfers before. But of course" — he lowered his voice and gave a sly, conspiratorial wink — "if the headmaster were to make exceptions for anyone, it would be for Albus, eh?"

Tom smiled politely. Slughorn was fishing for a reaction, and Tom's reputation demanded he oblige to Slughorn's whims.

"This student, sir," said Tom, "you said she's related to Professor Dumbledore?"

"His niece! Lovely girl, Ginevra. Very charming. You'll get along splendidly, I think. I've heard you're quite popular with the girls, Tom."

Slughorn chuckled loudly. If Tom could roll his eyes, he would have. Clearly the man had forgotten that he had meant for their conversation to be private. What was the point of pulling Tom aside, away from the other prefects, when his damned chortling could be heard all over the train?

Still, Tom ducked his head, the picture of bashfulness. "Only just, sir," he said. Slughorn chortled harder, and Tom had to wait for it to subside before he continued, "I don't mean to pry, Professor, but I didn't know Professor Dumbledore had relatives. That is to say, I've never heard of relatives my age. . . ."

"Ah, been listening to your house mates, have you? The Blacks, I'm guessing. I won't be surprised if they have all the family trees memorized. . . ." Slughorn frowned, his brows furrowed disapprovingly. It was a sentiment that Tom knew he would never reveal to his prized pureblood students. "Hmm. Yes, well. Ginevra Smith is from Albus's Muggle side of the family. Now, I'm sure you have questions, Tom, but I'm not privy to all of the details — Dumbledore is very private about his family, you understand — so you'll have to ask her yourself. I daresay you'll have plenty of opportunities to do so, once you meet her."

Tom pretended to look abashed. "Oh, of course, sir. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. . . ."

"No need to worry, Tom," Slughorn said at once. "It's only natural to be curious. After all, it's not everyday Hogwarts gets a transfer student — and a Slytherin one, at that."

Slughorn smiled in a self-satisfied way, as though this unprecedented news was something he had been responsible for. Pathetic man.

Tom, already bored with his company, was waiting to be dismissed, but Slughorn wasn't done.

"Which reminds me," said Slughorn, suddenly sober. His voice had lowered again. "I trust you'll show her around, Tom? Make her feel welcome? You, more than anyone, know what it's like, being Muggle-born in Slytherin —"

"I'm half-blood, sir," Tom said evenly, though inside he was seething. "Not Muggle-born."

He despised being mistaken for a Muggle-born, but he hated the word "half-blood" even more. _Half-blood,_ as though he were only half pure, half magic, half worthy. Only half important, half wanted in both worlds, and belonging to neither.

"And neither is Ginevra," said Slughorn, unperturbed, "but they'll see her that way, won't they? Anyone with a common Muggle surname is as good as. . . . But you'll watch after her, yes? She'll need a friend, someone to make her feel at home. . . . She really is a bright witch, Tom. Very cheeky, too. You'll get along well . . . yes, quite well. . . ."

Tom wanted to say no, wanted to say that this new girl, whoever she was, was not worth his time, and was nothing more than just another face to smile at, to charm, to ignore. Tom wanted to say that if Slughorn was so keen on finding a Mudblood friend for this girl who so fascinated him, then he ought to have just talked to Droope, the female prefect in Tom's year. Tom wanted to say that it didn't matter who Ginevra Smith was related to, if she was a Mudblood or not — he wanted to say, _Slytherin is the house of snakes, and no one here extends kindness._ _Here, you earn your place, you fight to gain respect, you remake yourself into what they want. Here, they take and take and take, and you push back before there's nothing left of you to burn._

But Tom only smiled and said, "Of course, sir."

* * *

By the time the first years trailed in, the entire Great Hall was abuzz with rumours and stories about Ginevra Smith. In spite of himself, Tom was impressed by how quickly the news had spread, and he didn't need Legilimency to know that the girl was at the foreground of everyone's mind.

"Another Mudblood in the ranks," Abraxas Malfoy had sneered when Smith had entered, but even he was looking her over with obvious interest.

For once, Lucretia Black was thinking of someone other than Ignatius Prewett, and Briseis Burke was telling anyone who would listen that Smith was actually Dumbledore's illegitimate daughter. Walburga Black was fuming with jealousy; her usual circle of admirers was too busy gossiping to clamour for her attention. Only her brother Alphard seemed indifferent, occupied as he was in what looked like a heated one-sided argument with Raoul Lestrange.

But despite the enthusiasm Smith's presence had generated, no one was inclined to approach her. For all their curiosity, everyone was content to talk about the new girl rather than to her.

The girl in question seemed unbothered by this. She sat alone at the far end of the Slytherin table, away from the other students, and did not appear to be fazed by the stares she was getting. Her eyes swept across the room, flat and inscrutable.

"Looks a bit like Weasley, doesn't she?" said Tyrell Nott, staring at her as the Sorting Ceremony began.

"The Weasleys haven't had a girl in generations," said Ronan Rosier, who was sitting next to Tom. "Not that we need anymore of their sort. There's enough of them as it is, breeding like rabbits —"

On Tom's other side, Marius Mulciber was speculating with Nott about the circumstances that brought Smith to Hogwarts. Tom was only half-listening, but it didn't escape his notice how Mulciber kept glancing at him for approval.

A few seats along from Tom, a blond seventh year was saying, "Pretty for a Mudblood, eh?"

"I suppose," sniffed Odette Travers, "if you're into freckles —"

Tom tuned out their inane chatter to glance at Smith again. Her red hair stood out, loud and garish in the sea of green. She was pretty enough, he supposed, though hardly worth the attention she was receiving, least of all Walburga Black's petty jealousy.

Tom had to admit he was slightly intrigued. It was obvious Smith was just another student, no more special than anyone else in their year, but something about her must have warranted Slughorn's request. From the way he had spoken of her, it was apparent they had already met, and Ginevra Smith must have made an impression.

Was it her relation to Dumbledore? Most likely. The man was brilliant, despite being a persistent nuisance, and Slughorn wouldn't pass up the opportunity to show off a Dumbledore relative, no matter how distant. But connections and influential relations weren't the only requirements to gain Slughorn's special attention. She must have been charming then, as Slughorn had said, and she would have to be reasonably talented.

Nothing about the way Smith held herself now made her seem amiable at all. Her posture was too stiff, too alert. Not necessarily hostile, but far from approachable. She looked like she was more likely to glare down anyone who dared come close than make meaningless small talk.

Well, Smith wouldn't have a choice but to deal with Tom's overtures. Slughorn made it clear he wanted Tom to make an effort with the girl. Simple enough. Smile, charm her, move on.

The Sorting was almost over when Tom looked over at Smith again. For one fleeting moment, brown eyes met his own. Something flickered on her face and suddenly, before Tom could react, her gaze swept past him, as though she hadn't seen him at all.

If he had been anyone else, perhaps he would have dismissed it as just that, but Tom wasn't fooled. Smith was aware she was being stared at, and had been inspecting everyone in turn. He was certain she had seen him.

Dippet rose to deliver his speech just as Smith stood and rushed towards the exit. Without thinking, Tom moved to follow her, unheeding of the questions his house mates's called after him.

Someone grabbed the sleeve of his robe, forcing Tom to pause.

"Where are you going?" Margot Droope said with some asperity. Smith had already disappeared through the double doors. "We're supposed to show the first years to their dormitories!"

As if Tom needed reminding of his responsibilities.

He locked eyes with her, and saw a scattered string of thoughts: _oh no, he can't leave . . . I can't handle them on my own . . . they're never going to listen to me . . . can't do it by myself. . . ._

Tom pulled away from her mind and smiled at her, careful not to let his annoyance show.

"Don't worry," he said in placating tones. "I'll be back before the feast ends."

Before Droope could say anything else, Tom moved away and walked as briskly and as nonchalantly as he could. It had only been a minute or two. Smith couldn't have gone far. . . .

A sweep of long red hair whipped around the corner on the opposite side of the entrance hall. Either she was a particularly slow walker or she had been loitering while Tom fended off their house mates.

Casting a nonverbal spell to muffle his steps, Tom followed her at a distance, careful not to make a sound. Smith moved purposefully, with the sure, deliberate pace of one who had walked these corridors before. When she had reached the bottom of the staircase that led to the dungeons, she looked over her shoulder, stopping Tom midstep.

Smith knew she was being followed, he realized. Why she hadn't deigned to acknowledge it until now, was a question for another time.

Tom continued down the steps, smiling pleasantly.

"You're missing the feast, you know," he said.

"So are you," said Smith. Her eyes were sharp as she watched him.

"Well, yes. But I saw you leave the feast so early, and I wondered if you needed help." When she said nothing to this, Tom went on, "It's Ginevra, isn't it? Ginevra Smith?"

"Ginny," she corrected.

"Ginny, then." Tom thought he saw her stiffen as he said it, but it could have just as easily been a trick of the light. He held out his hand. "I'm Tom Riddle. We're in the same year."

Smith glanced at his hand, gripped it, and let go. "You're the prefect. Slughorn told me."

"Oh, you've met him?"

Smith shrugged and began to walk. Tom fell into step beside her.

"Our Head of House can be rather talkative, but he's all right. He can be . . . _excitable_ " — he put a great deal of emphasis on the word, to garner an amused smirk or at least a hesitant smile, but Smith didn't react — "but never hesitate to go to him if you need help. Professor Slughorn is very easy to talk to, and always eager to talk to his students. Us especially, of course."

Again, Smith said nothing. She had angled her face away from him, so Tom couldn't see her expression.

"But I'll be happy to help you as well, should you need it," he continued. "Should you ever need anything, anything at all, you can always come to me."

Smith glanced at him and looked away quickly. "I'll keep that in mind."

As they ambled through the long draughty stretch of the dungeons, Tom noticed how Smith kept her gaze fixed ahead, only occasionally peeking at him from the corner of her eyes. She wouldn't look at him directly, nor did she look at the walls around them.

"I could give you a tour of the castle, if you like," said Tom after a beat.

"Isn't that what you should be doing for the first years? Showing them around? Shepherding them?"

"Not until after the feast," he said, not missing the way she had spoken a little too pointedly. "I could show you around, walk you to your classes — it's very easy to get lost during the first few weeks, what with the moving stairs and all the passages —"

"I'll be fine."

She had cut him off. _She_ had cut _him_ off.

Tom struggled to keep the genial smile on his face. "Yes, you do seem to know your way around the castle fairly well, don't you?"

Smith had paused by a stretch of bare, damp stone wall. When she finally turned to him, something flashed on her face before she walled it away. Had Tom not recognized it, he might have been taken in by her wide, bold grin, but he knew that fleeting expression too well to be deceived.

Contempt. She had turned to him and looked at him with _contempt_.

Tom had seen that look all his life. He was not wounded by it, but he wondered what Dumbledore had been telling his niece to receive it from her, of all people. What did she think she knew about him? Who did she think she was? And why, if she had already formed her opinion of him, was she pretending to be cordial?

"I spent the summer here," said Smith. "I got to explore the castle a bit, and the portraits were really great."

"Oh?"

"Their directions were helpful." Smith was still grinning, friendly and affable. Tom could understand why Slughorn had called her charming, but all he saw was a bland, paper thin mask.

Tom peered into the edges of her mind, and was disappointed to find only a flickering film of dinners with Dumbledore, Quidditch games over rolling hills, and an overgrown garden.

But he, too, was good with facades.

"Would you like to return to the Great Hall?" said Tom lightly. "I'm sure if we go now, we could make it in time for dessert."

"I'm not hungry."

"Are you sure? I would have thought, being new, you would take the opportunity to get to know our house mates, make friends. . . ."

Her smile was now a touch sardonic. "I think they've got other things on their minds than making friends with the new girl."

Tom couldn't help but smirk slightly. Sometimes the finer points of subtlety were lost even on the purportedly cunning. Sheep, the lot of them.

"Well then, I should be heading back," he said. "As you said, I have first years to show around."

"See you in class," said Smith, waving him off. But she looked at the wall blankly, blinked, and turned to Tom again with an almost alarmed look. "Er — I don't know the password."

Tom felt the corners of his lips quirk upwards. "Professor Slughorn didn't tell you?"

If she was embarrassed — if she heard the unspoken _So the portraits weren't so helpful after all, then?_ — she didn't show it. Smith only hummed noncommitally.

"The password is _veritas_ ," he said.

A stone door concealed in the wall slid open. Smith grinned at him again, spun on her heel, and entered without another word.

* * *

When Tom returned to the common room, Smith was sitting at the leather sofa closest to the window, a book open on her lap. The glow of the lake was bathing her in green light, making her look gaunt and dulling the brightness of her hair

The other Slytherins still kept their distance, and Tom made no move to approach her again. He was surrounded by his professed friends — _followers_ , as Alphard Black once aptly called them — and was being showered by simpering congratulations over his prefect badge. Though Tom was smiling benignly at them, his thoughts were elsewhere: he was wondering what he was going to do about Ginevra Smith.

Slughorn would undoubtedly be let down if Tom didn't try to curry her favour. As secure as Tom was in his place as one of Slughorn's favourites, it wouldn't do to disappoint him; there were wealthier, more accepted members in his little club, and Tom refused to have his position challenged.

But was it worth increasing Dumbledore's suspicions? Smith had apparently inherited her uncle's distrust of him. Winning her over wouldn't be as easy as the others, and any attempt to ingratiate himself with her would no doubt attract Dumbledore's attention.

Then again, she was just another girl. Even with Dumbledore's influence, surely she couldn't be so different?

Tom didn't ponder over it for long. Nott was asking him a N.E.W.T. level question on Defense, and Tom was not one to turn down a chance to prove his mastery of the class.

A raucous peal of laughter interrupted him.

Across the common room, the so-called elite were silhouetted by the crackling fireplace. Malfoy, Lestrange, the Blacks, all the families with more money than the rest of Slytherin House combined. They had as much power as Tom, if not more.

Malfoy was regaling the group with a story of some Quidditch match or another. Zabini, Selwyn, and the Flints, among others, were listening with avid interest. The Blacks — _the sacred quartet_ , Tom thought derisively — looked vaguely unimpressed.

Tom ignored them, and began explaining to Nott the differences between Dementors and Lethifolds again.

He wasn't entirely sure what happened next, or how it got there, but he was certain that what unfolded began with Malfoy's disdainful voice snarling, " _Mudblood_."

A lull fell over the room following this pronouncement. Tom, at first, thought it was directed at him, but those around him had not stood in outrage or made noises of protest, as they often did when he was being taunted.

Looking up, Tom saw that Malfoy was now standing in front of Smith, his mouth curled into a sneer. Smith closed her book with a resounding thud.

No one, not even the older prefects, moved.

"What did you just say?" said Smith in barely more than a whisper.

"I _said_ ," Malfoy spoke loudly, the words carrying across the room, "what _are_ you doing here, filthy little Mudblood? Your _kind_ doesn't belong here, especially not in —"

He stopped, seeing her hand fly to her wand, and moved to brandish his own.

Smith was quicker. She had flicked her wrist silently before Malfoy could even reach into his robes, and green, slimy-looking bats were crawling out of his nostrils and flapping away from his face. Amid his screams, the Blacks shrieked and ran, and the room was suddenly in an uproar.

"What the —"

"Are those _bats_?"

"Did she just —"

" _She just hexed Malfoy!_ "

As chaos erupted around her, Smith smirked and gave a mocking curtsy. Her steps didn't falter as she sauntered to the dormitories, not even to spare a glance at the bedlam she created.

Tom watched her go, his slight intrigue turning into full-blown curiosity.


	2. Enter Alphard Black

_4 September 1942_

Riddle was staring at her again.

Ginny took a careful sip of her tea, trying to focus on the pleasant warmth of the cup against her palms and the steam rising in soft billows on her face, and willed herself not to look back.

In the four days since the term began, Ginny had caught him looking in her direction too many times for it to be a coincidence. He was subtle about it, watching her from the corner of his eyes with glances that came and went so quickly that it was as if they were never there at all. She doubted anyone else had noticed. Even if they had, Riddle's scrutiny wouldn't have been considered alarming, not when he wasn't the only one looking.

Dumbledore had warned her that her arrival would be met with rumours and a baffling amount of anticipation. Ginny knew how fast stories could spread in Hogwarts, how they could devolve into something vicious and ugly with every retelling, but she hadn't been prepared for the attention being heaped upon her.

It wasn't that everyone kept trying to talk to her or to befriend her or anything like that. None of them approached her at all. They were simply . . . _fascinated_ by her. Ginny could hear them whispering when her back was turned, and she could feel their stares lingering on her when she walked in the corridors.

Even the teachers were interested, expecting her to be _just_ _like_ _her_ _uncle_. They had unfailingly said as much at the start of every class, and Ginny was forced to smile and nod and stammer her way through their questions.

"You mustn't blame them for wondering," Dumbledore had said, when she had complained to him of the gossip circulating about her. "Your presence here, after all, is perhaps the most interesting piece of news since the cancellation of the Quidditch World Cup."

"They're saying I'm your daughter," Ginny had deadpanned, hoping he would see how ridiculous it all was.

But Dumbledore did little more than smile and say, "Are they, now? Such imagination they have . . . impressive, isn't it, what curious minds can think up?"

There had been a gleam in his eyes as he said it, as though he found the whole thing amusing. In that moment, Dumbledore had looked so much like the Dumbledore from her own time that Ginny had been torn between nostalgia and frustration.

After that, Ginny had given up trying to get his sympathy on the matter, and did her best to ignore the rumour mill. It was, she had to admit, partly her fault — hexing Abraxas Malfoy may have been satisfying, but it was exactly the sort of thing she promised herself she wouldn't do, and it pretty much destroyed her plan of being as unnoticeable as possible. If she could avoid a repeat of that, if she could avoid drawing any more attention to herself, the novelty of her presence would wear off, and she would be able to fade to the background and be just another fixture of the school.

That didn't make Riddle's staring any less unnerving. It didn't matter that the whole of Hogwarts seemed to be overwhelmingly curious about the stranger dropped in their midst — _they_ weren't megalomanic, homicidal would-be Dark Lords.

Still, Ginny thought there was something ironic about being at the receiving end of his concentrated curiosity. Tom — because the diary could never be anything but Tom to her — hadn't been half as interested in her as Riddle seemed to be. He had pretended, of course, but Ginny knew she had been nothing more than a tool. Tom had made that abundantly clear when she had seen him for the first time, looming over her with his cold eyes and mocking smile.

It was those same eyes that were studying her now, and it made Ginny's insides squirm uncomfortably. Recurring nightmares weren't supposed to turn into a flesh and bone human being in school robes and a green tie. She deserved some sort of award, really, for having the restraint to not pass out or scream her head off or shout the Killing Curse at Riddle every time she saw him.

At last, Riddle looked away, saying something to the small group that hovered over him like moths to a flame. Whatever it was, it had the boys laughing loud enough that some students on the other side of the Hall turned to look.

Ginny let out the breath she had been holding and went back to her breakfast. Books were propped open next to her plate, so she had an excuse to keep her head down and not look so pitifully lonely. She was sitting at the end of the table, several feet away from the rest of her House. For a few fleeting seconds, Ginny wondered if this was what Harry felt all the time, before swiftly pushing the thought away.

Not too long ago, the wide berth between her and her classmates wouldn't have existed. The old Ginny, the one who had drawn people to her with wry jokes and bold grins, would have nonchalantly sat down next to someone and opened with a charming quip or news about the latest Quidditch match. Back then she had sat among Gryffindors and flitted about Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws.

She had never been surrounded by Slytherins, all pristine clothes and disdainful sneers and carefully cocked brows.

And wasn't that a thought? A Weasley in Slytherin. Draco Malfoy would have an aneurysm. Fred and George would have started up a riot, if they wouldn't have been too busy laughing their arses off at the supposed impossibility. . . .

Ginny pushed her plate away. Hurriedly, she gathered her books and tried to ignore the telltale prickling in her eyes. The thought of her brothers — the last she had seen of them, George had been crumpled over Fred's unmoving body, Percy desperately covering the both of them with spell after spell — had made something coil tight in her chest, twisting and pulling taut.

Three months in 1942 hadn't numbed the pain at all. It didn't help that she was sitting here, eating her breakfast and keeping up a bloody farce of normalcy, at the place where so many bodies had spilled out on the ground, cold and mangled and unmoving.

It didn't help that this Hogwarts was more crowded than her own. Her class now was twice as large as the one in her own time, and it was a stark reminder of how much the world had lost in the first war alone, and how much was at stake.

And it didn't help that she was surrounded by both strange and almost-familiar faces, reminding her of how wrong it all was. Of how alone she was. Of how she didn't belong in this time, and where she did belong was out of her reach.

As much as she tried to push back her thoughts, too many painful reminders slipped through, insisting that she should be sitting at the Gryffindor table, talking Neville's ear off with Colin at her side. Not here, alone with Slytherins who only ever glanced at her with varying degrees of curiosity and disdain.

Ginny stood, bag slung over her shoulder. Looking up at the High Table, she found Dumbledore giving her a kind smile. Ginny tried to return it, but she ended up with something more of a grimace; her bullshitting skills were never up to par when she was on the verge of having a good cry.

As Ginny left the Great Hall, taking as long a stride as her legs would allow, she could feel Riddle's gaze burning a hole into her back, wary, calculating, and inexplicably curious.

* * *

When Ginny arrived in Slughorn's classroom, most of the class was already there. A good number of heads turned to follow her as she made her way to the sole empty table at the back of the room.

Slughorn, she noticed, had also seen her enter. He looked like he wanted to approach her or call her to the front, but he was too preoccupied with Margot Droope, a Slytherin prefect, to do more than enthusiastically wave at her from across the room. Droope was showing him her notes, gesturing animatedly as she spoke, and it — _God,_ _Ginny,_ _don't_ _do_ _this_ _to_ _yourself_ — reminded Ginny of Hermione, with her bushy curls and eager-to-please expression. Their conversation came to a close when the last of the Gryffindors came in, and Slughorn called the class' attention.

"Settle down, everyone, settle down," he began. "All right, let's see now . . . everyone take out your books, your potion kits, your scales, and — ah yes. Almost forgot. Everyone, pick a partner! We'll be making a potion that is sure to come up in your O.W.L.s, and you will all be doing it in pairs."

Slughorn looked pointedly at the table to his left, where three boys sat with their heads bent together. They were whispering fiercely, their voices too low to make out, when suddenly one of the boys broke away to look at Ginny. He was one of the almost-familiar faces in the crowd, and Ginny would have thought him handsome if his features weren't scrunched up in obvious displeasure.

Slughorn cleared his throat. The boy, looking extremely put out, finally stood and swaggered to Ginny's table. Ginny, in response, rolled her eyes.

"Excellent!" said Slughorn, and he began his lecture. Ginny listened with only half an ear; she may not have been a Potions prodigy, but his discussion wasn't any different from when he taught the same potion to her class two years ago — or, rather, fifty-something years from now.

Instead, Ginny doodled on the corners of her parchment, and studied her reluctant partner from the corner of her eye. She couldn't remember his name — something that began with an A or an F, maybe — but she recognized him easily. Dark hair, good looks, expensive robes — obviously one of the Blacks. He had the same haughty look of his family, and his features were framed by longish hair that her mother would have condemned as exceedingly unkempt.

Black, for his part, looked as bored and as disinterested as Ginny felt. He stared stonily ahead, his jaw clenched and his arms crossed, until Slughorn instructed the class to begin making the Draught of Peace.

"Let's clear a few things up, Smith," said Black, sighing heavily as he gave her a flat, condescending stare. "I'm not doing all the work for you."

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Unless you've been living under a rock, I say it's quite obvious — you're fortunate to have me as a partner. However, it wouldn't be fair if I did all the work and —"

"I'm not asking you to," said Ginny, indignant.

"Of course not. I'm merely pointing out that given your history, you don't have much experience with potion brewing. It can't be helped, but it doesn't excuse you from —"

"I'll have you know," Ginny cut in, struggling to keep her tone even, "that I'm good at potion making."

There was an amused, snide twist to Black's thin smile. "I'm sure."

"I _am_ , Black. I'm bloody great at it."

Black paused. Maybe he finally noticed her thinly veiled anger, or maybe, though unlikely, he realized he was being a prick. In any case, Black shrugged and said, "All right, then. You prepare the ingredients, I'll handle the brewing."

Not in the mood to argue, Ginny laid out her things and began to work.

As the class went on, Black resolutely ignored her. He didn't say a word when she handed him the ingredients, not even when she made a funny comment about Slughorn's mustache — and it _was_ funny, if Ginny did say so herself. The only time Black deigned to look at her was when she didn't give him enough syrup of hellebore, tsking at her with such an impatient air that Ginny was tempted to throw the flask in his face.

Here she was, trying her best to make small talk and not to antagonize anyone — the least Black could do was acknowledge her attempts. Nice to know that there were things not even fifty years could change: her rotten luck, Dumbledore's godforsaken twinkle, and Slytherins' natural disposition to be intolerant gits.

Well, strictly speaking, the last one wasn't entirely true. Ginny had seen more than a few Slytherins chatting with the other Houses in the corridors, and just this morning she saw Lucretia Black holding court in the Hufflepuff table. Sure, slurs still came easy to many of them, but as far as Ginny could tell, they limited their racism to the confines of the common room. Which . . . wasn't great, but at least House divisions in this time were less divisive than in her own.

Ginny was preparing the last of the ingredients when she noticed Black reaching for the bottle of powdered moonstone. Feeling vindictive, she rapped his knuckles lightly with her wand and said, "Not yet."

"What are you talking about, Smith?" drawled Black, glaring at her as he withdrew his hand.

"You're not supposed to add the moonstone yet," said Ginny, using her best Hermione-esque tone. "You have to let the potion simmer first."

"It's had enough simmering," said Black patronizingly. "In case you haven't noticed, the potion has already turned violet."

"And you're supposed to wait for it to turn purple."

Black tsked again, gesturing to the blackboard. "The instructions said violet. Can't you read? Besides, violet or purple — they're the same thing."

"They're not," said Ginny. "Violet means you've mixed until the unicorn horn is just incorporated, which means the potion will work just fine —"

"Then I don't see the prob —"

It was Ginny's turn to tsk, and Black's mouth tightened at the sound. "But it won't work right away. You have to wait for it to turn purple so the ingredients have time to settle."

"It won't make a difference," said Black coldly.

"It will," Ginny insisted. "If you don't give it time to rest, the potion won't be properly balanced, and there'll be a ten minute delay before it can take effect. You _have_ to let the potion simmer longer."

Slughorn, who had been peering at the cauldron of a pair of Gryffindors nearby, chose that moment to waddle over, beaming from ear to ear.

"Very good, very good!" he exclaimed approvingly. "How ever did you learn that, Miss Smith?"

Ginny had learned it from homework Slughorn himself had assigned, but she couldn't exactly tell him that. Wearing her most charming smile, she said, "Just some light reading, Professor. I didn't want to be behind, what with my . . . _history_ and all."

"Well I daresay that won't be a problem! Clever girl like you, you'll be passing your classes with flying colours, no doubt about that. Take ten points for Slytherin, Miss Smith, for being a dab hand at Potions!" Still smiling warmly, Slughorn turned to Black. "You're lucky to have such a talented partner, eh, Alphard?"

"Quite," said Black stiffly as Slughorn shuffled off to another table. Ginny, who had been trying hard not to smirk since Slughorn's approach, gave Black a look of wide-eyed innocence, wordlessly handing him the bottle of powdered moonstone — the potion, at last, was now a deep purple.

Seething with quiet anger, Black proceeded to snub her with renewed determination, but Ginny, feeling considerably lighter, wasn't offended in the least.

Their potion was almost done when Ginny let her eyes stray to Riddle and Droope's table. Riddle was grinding porcupine quills into powder, nodding agreeably as Droope, bent over their cauldron, gave instructions through the silver mist. Black, damn him, caught Ginny staring before she could look away.

"Can't you ogle him in your own time?" demanded Black snidely. His voice was loud enough that the girls in front of them, Briseis Burke and Wendy Crockett, turned to look. "And not while we're — oh I don't know — making a potentially lethal potion?"

Ginny felt her ears burn, her good spirits rapidly fading. "You don't hear me asking you to be a dick at your own time," she spat, "so just leave well enough alone, yeah?"

Black gaped at her, and Ginny remembered too late that girls in the 40s weren't supposed to be so vulgar. Still, the sight of Black rendered speechless, if only for a second, made it worth it.

"You better be good at multitasking," he sneered after moment, sharp and mocking. "I don't want to get a less than perfect mark because of your little crush."

"No need to worry about that," said Ginny cuttingly. "I'm a dab hand at Potions, remember?"

Black's glare was cold and contemptuous. Before he could come up with a retort, Slughorn called for the class to bring a sample of their potion to the front, and Ginny began to fill her flagon with the shimmering liquid, her movements jerky with rage. She chanced another glance at Riddle; he, too, was preparing the sample, but his half smile was noticeably smugger than before.

Slughorn praised Ginny and Black's potion with gusto, and Ginny moved away quickly so she wouldn't meet Riddle's eyes. When Ginny returned to her table, Black, still scowling, was almost finished clearing his things. Burke was now giggling, glancing back at Ginny over her shoulder as she whispered to Odette Travers, who was sitting at a table across the aisle.

 _Brilliant_ , Ginny thought crossly, emptying out the contents of the cauldron with a silent _Evanesco_. This was just what she needed — more rumours. At the rate Burke was going, half the school would be talking about how Ginny fancied the pants off Riddle by suppertime. _Just fucking brilliant._

Class was dismissed not long after, and Black glided out the door without a backwards glance, chin held high and satin robes billowing behind him. Too late, Ginny saw Riddle approaching her table, having just extricated himself from Slughorn, and she hadn't finished packing her things quickly enough to make a clean getaway.

Heart hammering in her chest, Ginny braced herself. Riddle hadn't spoken to her since the first day, and their interactions so far had been limited to nodding politely at each other in the corridors and, for Ginny, ignoring his damned staring. She knew he was suspicious of her — how could he not be, when their first meeting had gone as brilliantly as her encounter with Malfoy? Ginny had been too transparent, too flustered when she saw him that Riddle had no doubt noticed her immediate dislike.

But no, she couldn't have a repeat of that. She had to be polite. Amiable. Dull. Let Riddle think her a simpleton with nothing to hide.

"Be as inconspicuous as you can," Dumbledore had said. "Nothing is more unnoticeable than mediocrity — perhaps then he will underestimate you."

Ginny busied herself with her potion-making kit, only looking up with a politely inquiring smile when Riddle reached her table.

"That was . . . entertaining," said Riddle. He was every bit as handsome as Ginny remembered, his skin still pale and smooth, his eyes still dark and calm, his movements still exuding effortless grace. But up close there was something off about him, little things that didn't fit the image of the perfect, terrifying monster from her nightmares.

For one thing, his clothes were not the expensive, pitch black material that Malfoy and the Blacks wore. Riddle's robes were faded, frayed at the seams, and his textbooks, too, were obviously secondhand. His bag had clearly seen better days, and Ginny knew from experience that it was being held together only by mending charms and a needle and thread.

There was something almost comforting about the thought that Riddle wasn't as pristine and in control as he made himself out to be, that despite all his carefully weaved lies and gentlemanly smiles, there were still cracks in the facade hiding the penniless orphan he really was. A reminder that he was still human — human and _vulnerable_.

"What was?" said Ginny.

"Seeing Black get taken down a peg." Riddle smiled as though he was sharing an inside joke, and Ginny felt sick at the reminder of how easy it was to be fooled by him, to be taken in by the way his eyes shone with false sincerity.

He was so sickeningly charming that she wanted to punch him in his perfect teeth. Ginny had seen that same smile before — he had worn it in the Chamber of Secrets, when he was slowly draining away her soul.

But Ginny and Dumbledore's plan, unfortunately, didn't include socking Lord Voldemort's jaw.

"You two don't get on then?" said Ginny.

"He's quite good at Potions — one of Professor Slughorn's favourites. It's not every day he gets shown up in class."

Ginny's smile faltered. Riddle hadn't answered her question, but she decided not to push. "All I did was read a textbook."

"Not our assigned textbooks though. I've checked."

"It's in the library." Ginny shrugged, hoping it looked casual and not like she was itching to turn tail and run. "Can't really remember the title but it's there — the Reference Section, I think."

Riddle looked suddenly hesitant, his head bowed just so, like he was too self-conscious to meet her eyes. "Perhaps you can help me? I've been worrying about the O.W.L.s lately and I think I may need help with —"

"Really? You?" Ginny couldn't help the little laugh that bubbled out of her throat. _Tutoring_ Tom bloody Riddle? The idea was too hilarious to contemplate.

Riddle blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I've seen the teachers fawn over you, Riddle. You're the best in our year — I really doubt you need any sort of help, Potions or otherwise."

He preened a bit at that, the corners of his lips lifting upwards. "Maybe I'm just looking for an excuse to talk to you," he followed smoothly.

If it had been anyone else — legit, anyone else, even that oaf Zacharias Smith — Ginny would have batted her eyelashes and said, "Bet you say that to all the girls."

She hummed noncommittally, swinging her bag over her shoulders. "I have to go to class."

"So do I. Care of Magical Creatures?" said Riddle, and Ginny tried not to grimace.

"You too?" she said, struggling to keep her grin in place when Riddle nodded. "Great."

It was a long walk from Slughorn's classroom to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where Kettleburn's classes were held. As they made their way out of the dungeons, Ginny wondered, not for the first time, if she really was up to the task that had been thrust upon her. Since her arrival earlier in the year, she had dreaded having to do this — to have to interact with Riddle, to play nice with him and pretend to be a simpering idiot, to act like cursing him whenever she saw him was the farthest thing from her mind.

At the same time, Ginny was frustrated with herself. Hadn't she asked to be put in Slytherin so she could keep an eye on Riddle? So she could stop him before hell could break loose? Hadn't all this been her plan in the first place? And yet here she was, still too much of a coward and letting her memories get in the way.

"How are you liking Hogwarts so far?" asked Riddle, jolting her out of her self-pitying reverie.

"It's all right, I suppose."

He arched an eyebrow. "Just all right?"

"What's there to say?" said Ginny blandly. "Do you want me to wax poetic about the castle and the classes and all that?"

That same smile of his was back, accompanied by a short chuckle. "If you like. It's just a bit unusual, that's all. Most first years tend to be more expressive when asked."

Her own first year wasn't all that grand either, no thanks to him. "Sorry to disappoint," said Ginny dryly, "but I'm not actually eleven."

"Fair enough," said Riddle, his gaze forthright and penetrating. "But what about us Slytherins? Any thoughts on our House?" Ginny was unable to hide her frown in time, and Riddle quickly added, "I'm assuming we haven't made a favorable impression?"

"Not really," admitted Ginny, looking away from his intense stare. "Don't know about you, but I'm not really keen on all the gossip that's floating about. Not to mention Malfoy and his lot . . ."

Her voice trailed away, worried she had revealed too much, but Riddle only looked amused.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "The rest of us aren't so bad though, I don't think."

Ginny bit her tongue to stop herself from saying something stupid, and internally cursed whoever decided her schedule was a good idea.

"I can't help but wonder what it's like," said Riddle, when the silence had stretched on for longer than was comfortable, "having a relative as your professor."

Ginny opened her mouth before closing it, resisting the urge to throw Riddle a sharp look when she realized what he was doing. He was trying to weasel information out of her — about _Dumbledore_. Was this why he was so suspicious of her? Was the reason for all his creepy staring not because of _her_ and some instinctive knowledge of her wrongness, but because of her pretend uncle? If so, it was oddly insulting, that she was just another unwitting party in his enmity against Dumbledore.

Like how Tom hadn't seen her as anything more than a means to get to Harry. Points for consistency, she supposed.

"It's all right," Ginny said again, as impassive as before.

He cast a sidelong glance at her. "I imagine it must be somewhat odd. You and Professor Dumbledore seem rather close."

"Hmm," said Ginny vaguely. "What's Kettleburn like? I heard about what happened with Beery's play."

A shadow of frustration flickered on Riddle's face. "And what did Professor Dumbledore say about it?"

Ginny stopped walking abruptly. "Bit rude of you, interrogating me about my uncle," she snapped, peeved, and she fancied she saw a hint of uncertainty in Riddle's features. "The right thing to do would be to just drop the subject and move on."

"Interrogating?" Riddle frowned. "I'm only making conversation."

"You're not, and you're not being very subtle about it either." He looked offended, and opened his mouth to speak before she scathingly continued, "You've been making these — these — _statements_ , and expecting me to answer them. I didn't pester you when you avoided my question about Black, because _I_ can take a hint, but _you_ won't give me the same courtesy. Well, I'm not having it, Riddle. That's not how conversations work." As she spoke, Ginny realized that it wasn't just about Dumbledore either. Riddle had done the same days ago — asking questions that weren't quite questions but still demanded answers, trying to read her, to _analyze_ her.

And hadn't it been like that with the diary too? Wasn't that why it had been so easy to talk to Tom? It hadn't just been to evade her questions, but a way to seem like he was interested in what she had to say. Tom had let her fill his pages with stories, letting her answer unspoken questions, manipulating her into thinking he cared enough to listen.

This was his charm, Ginny realized, more than his looks and his magic. Riddle had his silver tongue, a way with words that made it easy to share more than what was explicitly asked for. It was all there, between the lines, and Ginny, being the idiot that she was, had been obliging so far.

"Isn't it?" said Riddle, looking completely sincere in his cluelessness. "I say one thing, you say another —"

"No, you've been trying to wheedle information," Ginny bit out, and his unassuming mask fell, his face suddenly blank and inscrutable. "You want to know something? Then bloody ask."

She could almost imagine the cogs in his head turning behind the expressionless front, and she wondered how he was going to try and save face.

"I'm sorry," said Riddle, and Ginny's jaw nearly dropped. "I didn't mean to offend. It's just — well, I've been hearing all these rumours and I wondered . . . you're right. It was rude of me. I apologize, I never meant to make you uncomfortable."

He looked genuinely contrite, his mouth set in a deep frown and his brows furrowed in worry. Ginny was at a loss for words.

"Yeah, well . . ." Struggling not to gape at him, she started walking, her steps brisker than before. "Just . . . don't do it again," she finished lamely.

Riddle caught up with her easily, and Ginny carefully looked at anywhere but his profile, feeling immensely grateful that she had overgrown her tendency to blush quickly.

"Professor Kettleburn is quite eccentric," said Riddle after a while. "It's common consensus that his class is an easy O because of it, but it's truly the opposite. His, let's say, idiosnycrasies make him rather precocious."

Ginny could feel his intense gaze boring through her, his mind trying to edge its way through the fringes of her own. Dumbledore had taught her Occlumency over the summer, but even though her lessons had gone better than Harry's had, she wasn't sure she could keep Riddle out for long. Thinking it best not to risk it, she kept her eyes fixed on the ground.

"I heard he's a little reckless," said Ginny, trying not to shift uncomfortably.

"More than a little, I should say," said Riddle, exhaling slightly — another soft laugh, as fake as the rest of him. "But he's dedicated. His fondness for dangerous creatures is widely known, and it makes his classes one of the more exciting ones."

 _Like Hagrid_. The thought came unbidden, and memories of afternoons in Hagrid's hut, drinking tea with Fang curled by her feet, rose to the surface. Hagrid had understood, when she had told him about the chamber and the diary, and he had comforted her in a way her family couldn't have, because they only ever knew Voldemort; they hadn't known Tom like she and Hagrid had.

"Right," mumbled Ginny, her stomach twisting painfully. Hagrid was here now, she knew, only thirteen years old and grieving for his father, and in a few months time, he would be expelled, his prospects ruined, unless Ginny could stop Riddle. . . .

Outside the castle walls, the sun was at its height, lightly dusting her shoulders and the top of her head with warmth. The breeze was cool and soothing, the sky a clear, uninterrupted stretch of blue, not a grey cloud in sight — the perfect weather for flying.

How long had it been since the last time she flew? Since she last held a broom and soared for the fun of it? The wind in her hair, the world miles below her, laughing as she dodged the twins' Bludgers and threw the Quaffle past Ron's waiting defenses —

"When's Quidditch tryouts?" asked Ginny impulsively.

Riddle looked sideways at her, seemingly surprised. She wasn't sure if it was because of the question or because she had finally turned to him and met his eyes unflinchingly. A loop of memories played in her mind — little Ginny at six years old, breaking into the family's broom shed and taking her brother's brooms out in turn, practicing under the star-strewn sky.

"Next Saturday," Riddle said. "Are you planning on trying out?"

"I definitely wasn't planning on watching, if that's what you think."

"I should warn you that the team can be competitive."

 _Competitive_ was an understatement. Ginny chuckled, remembering how often the Slytherin team cheated in her own time. "Any means to achieve their ends, yeah?"

"It's a dangerous sport," said Riddle slowly. "Almost everyone who has ever been on the team is from a well-connected family. They don't take too well to outsiders."

Meaning Black and his ilk. Ginny wrinkled her nose. "Almost?" she echoed. "So no place for my kind, then?"

If Riddle noticed her drawling impression of Malfoy, he didn't comment, ignoring her question altogether. "What position will you be playing?"

Ginny gave him a pointed look, and almost didn't answer. Huffing slightly, she eventually replied, "Chaser, if there's a spot for it."

Riddle was staring at her again, with an intensity that was almost disturbing. "You strike me more as a Seeker," he said, and his eyes were as flat and calm as the lake on a spring morning.

Riddle wasn't talking about Quidditch anymore, and it caught Ginny off guard. She had no idea what to say, and never had she been more grateful to see Kettleburn's class. A Ravenclaw with dreadlocks waved Riddle over, and Ginny nearly sighed with relief when Riddle went to the small, motley assortment of students who had been beaming up at him since they came into view. Black was also in the class, and he seemed to have noticed her, if his disapproving frown was anything to go by. It became more pronounced when Raoul Lestrange, one of the boys he had been sitting with in Potions, nodded in Riddle's direction.

Ginny sat in the back, and was inexplicably reminded of Luna when a dark-haired, bespectacled Ravenclaw settled in the empty seat beside her. The mournful voice in her head was too loud to tune out, saying that Luna ought to be the one sitting next to her, and that if her best friend had been here, she would have had a thing or two to say about the Tebo that Kettleburn set loose on the unsuspecting fifth years.

As soon as Kettleburn dismissed the class, Ginny all but ran back to the castle. There was no way she was giving Riddle another opportunity to play at chivalry by offering to walk her to the Great Hall or, worse, invite her to lunch with his buddies. Not that the latter was likely to happen — after all, it wouldn't go over well with his minions if he hang about too much with the resident Mudblood.

Suddenly remembering Black's bruised ego and Burke's big mouth, Ginny made an about-face when she reached the entrance hall and headed to the kitchens. Hungry as she was, she was in no mood to be stared at and to have to listen to whatever gossip that was born in the hours since breakfast. The house-elves were eager to serve, and even more delighted when they recognized her as Dumbledore's niece. They were not unlike the house-elves Ginny had met before, and she knew that this much, at least, would remain a constant. It was a small comfort, but it was something.

Her last class of the day, Charms, was uneventful. Like in her other classes, Ginny waited until a handful of her classmates had already performed the Summoning Charm — Riddle, unsurprisingly, was the first to cast it successfully, followed almost immediately by Droope — before trying it herself. The professor, a clever-looking witch with salt-and-pepper hair, was less than impressed when Ginny's book barely moved an inch, and Ginny made sure she looked properly disappointed when her subsequent attempts were as ineffective.

"Ah, well, no matter," said the professor, trying and failing to look enthused when the book's pages did nothing more than flutter. Ginny tried not to snicker. "Just practice some more, Miss Smith. I'm certain you'll get it soon."

She was, it was obvious, expecting something more from Ginny, someone more talented and less ditsy and a bit more like her renowned uncle. It said a lot about Ginny that dashing these expectations were her only source of fun these days, if her mild, wry amusement could even be called that.

Ginny fled to the library once Charms was over. She stayed in a table hidden by rows of shelves of dusty, untouched tomes, and surrounded herself with parchment and textbooks on Parseltongue and the Dark Arts, the ones that she and Dumbledore hadn't destroyed or hid away when they had scoured the Restricted Section for anything that made mention of Horcruxes. Though certain that Riddle hadn't followed her, she Transfigured the book covers in case, and only lifted the spell when the librarian sternly but kindly informed her that the library was closing.

"So much homework already, dear?" said the librarian when Ginny insisted she needed just a few more minutes, and please, she _really_ needed to borrow these books, if that's all right.

It took a few more minutes, an abundant use of her puppy dog eyes, and copious name-dropping before the librarian acquiesced, and by the time Ginny arrived in the common room, armed with her borrowed textbooks and a bag of pastries nicked from the kitchens, it was almost curfew.

On her second day back at Hogwarts, Ginny had spent an embarrassing five minutes staring at the Fat Lady's portrait, having momentarily forgotten that she was no longer a Gryffindor. She hadn't made the same mistake since, but she still missed the warmth and the homely atmosphere of the Gryffindor common room.

The Slytherin common room was beautiful in its own right, elegant and tasteful in a way that was almost cold and unwelcoming. For all its grandeur, nothing about the place was homey, and Ginny hated how needlessly luxurious it all was. Too opulent for the comfort of the Burrow, too grandiose for the cosiness of the Gryffindor common room. There was no sunlight, no view of the grounds and the forest and the open sky, nothing to show that there was a world beyond the stone walls.

But there was a spot Ginny had claimed as her own, more out of necessity than fondness, and no other Slytherin came near it once it became clear who had made a nest of the particular corner. It was a leather loveseat beside the window that overlooked the lake, and the sound of the water would have been soothing if the green light wasn't so inconveniently dim.

The Blacks, like always, had settled near the crackling fireplace, along with the more elite members of their House. Riddle was nowhere to be seen, and neither were his underlings, but some of the younger students were scattered about, chatting animatedly. Ginny was content to ignore them, busy as she was with her books, and would have gone on ignoring them if she hadn't heard her name.

". . . Ginny Smith, what kind of a name is that anyway?"

"Common name."

"Common _Muggle_ name."

"They just let anyone in at Hogwarts these days, don't they?"

Ginny stifled a groan when she realized who they were — one of the Blacks, _of fucking course_ , and Byron Zabini, speaking too loudly for a private conversation. They must be angling for a reaction. Ginny's suspicions were confirmed when she caught sight of Zabini's hand casually placed where his wand would be in easy reach, and Walburga Black's manicured fingers curled around her own. A group of second years saw that Ginny had lifted her head from her books, and nudged each other to quiet down, clearly expecting a spectacle like before.

They were going to be sorely disappointed. Ginny was too tired to put on a show, and too proud to have to witness Dumbledore heave another one of his I'm-not-mad-just-disappointed sighs if he found out she attacked a student unprovoked again.

But still. Ginny wasn't quite tired enough to bite her tongue.

"I'm _so_ dreadfully sorry my name offends you," drawled Ginny loudly, so that her waiting audience would hear. "We can't all have names as lovely as yours, Walburga."

Walburga Black's mouth hung open with soundless rage, and Ginny swept to the dormitory before anyone else could react. The only other person in her room was Droope, who gave her no more than a cursory glance before burying her nose back in her homework. Ginny didn't mind — she really was tired, her eyelids heavy with sleep.

As Ginny flopped down on her bed, she couldn't help but be glad that the day — the entire week, really — was over. One week down, the rest of her life to go.

* * *

The thing was, Ginny wasn't sure how she ended up in 1942 to begin with.

She remembered the battle well enough — the bright beams of light, the shattered windows and the crumbling walls, the bodies splayed out on the flagstones. . . .

Ginny remembered how it felt to move among all the wreckage and death. It had felt as though she was floating, weightless and not quite aware of her own movements, like there was something unseen pulling at her limbs. There was a feeling of icy clarity, a sort of coldness that pooled at the pit of her stomach, and it made her feel numb and alive all at once. Like a fog had been lifted, and everything was suddenly, frighteningly clear.

It had made everything slow down, stoking the rage inside her until Ginny could focus on nothing but the fire that prickled along her skin and clawed tight in her chest. She remembered the blood pounding in her ears and the nimbleness of her feet, how she twirled and turned as she shot curses without compunction or hesitation.

But more than anything else, more than the actual fighting, Ginny remembered her mother, falling to the pavement. Colin, lying still and peaceful. Fred, his eyes unseeing.

And Harry. Brave, wonderful Harry.

Ginny remembered clutching his body, looking down at the blank face of the boy she could have loved, and thinking of all the things they had left unsaid between them. She could have sat there for hours, hunched over Harry's lifeless form as she shot at the Death Eaters who came near, until an arm came around her, gently but firmly pulling her away.

 _We have to go_ , Ron had said, but his voice had buzzed against her ear like all the sounds swirling inside her skull. _Come on, we have to go. Let — let him go, Gin . . . he — he's not . . . he's gone, Ginny. He's gone._

Ron had told her to run, and Ginny had. She had ran with no clear purpose, no destination, with only the white-hot anger in her chest to cling to and the icy clarity in her veins saying, _If I'm going down, I'm taking you bastards with me._

And somehow, without meaning to, she had found herself on the seventh floor, standing opposite a familiar tapestry and staring at a familiar blank wall.

Ginny couldn't remember what she had asked for, if she had closed her eyes in concentration or if she had whispered her wish under her breath. By then she had been swaying on her feet, spots dancing in front of her eyes, and she was only dimly aware of her broken bones and bleeding leg and the masked men approaching her.

But whatever it was she thought of, whatever it was she had asked for, the Room of Requirement had obliged. A door had appeared, and the room inside had been warm and enticing. Her body had moved of its own accord, stirred by the promise of safety, and Ginny, half-awake and barely upright, vaguely thought, _I need to save them . . . can't let them die . . . one more chance . . . have to save them . . . have to. ._ . .

 _I have to go back_.

The world had spun, sweeping Ginny in its orbit, and suddenly she was free falling, tumbling into a swirling, endless expanse, and then —

And then she was here.


End file.
